


“Remembering Not to Shave”

by Allronix



Category: The Orville (TV)
Genre: Other, Pre-OT3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 21:10:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12943980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allronix/pseuds/Allronix
Summary: On Xelayas, shaved eyebrows are a mark of exile. This is why Alara let hers grow back in.





	“Remembering Not to Shave”

On Xelayas, more particularly her home region of Xelayas, it was customary to shave off one’s eyebrows when leaving home. In the Bad Old Days, it used to be a sign of ritual mourning. After religion faded from influence, it got used to mark an exile. No eyebrows meant you were not just far from home, but that you couldn’t go back.

When Xelayas made contact with the wider galaxy? Her species’ superior strength and intellect compared to most of the galactic population gave Xelayans little reason to leave. It was only the dregs of their social barrel, like her, who wanted to leave. Out in the wider galaxy, shaving the eyebrows emphasized forehead ridges and ears, the parts of one’s face uniquely Xelayan. It was also a way to tell other Xelayans _“Hey, I’m not here willingly!”_

Alara continued the tradition out of habit. It was expected of her, even with the occasional nick and cut from the razor. Every morning, take the razor and some cream and shave that area just below her first ridges.

Being a washout, her exile was voluntary. She barely passed primary school. It took her twice as long to do half the work. Reading was hard enough, but the words and characters often jumbled on the page, and she used audio books to try and compensate with mixed success. Cultural studies were fun, but less about the studying and more about knowing that there was a whole different world – lots of them – outside of Xelayas.

She lied to her parents, of course. Told them it was just a cultural exchange trip to Earth. Told them it would take six months. It was common for young Xelayans to leave the homeworld and “slum it” out in the wider galaxy for under a year. Her dad wondered why she would spend it with the galaxy’s “hillbillies.” Her mom kept bringing up other suggestions – Delta Prime, where the water was purple, and the people specialized in medicine, or Ardrios where the galaxy’s second biggest library was located. Or, maybe, they said, she needed to stay home with them, so she could focus more on a respectable course of study, not spend her nights climbing rocks and hiking out in the carefully-cultivated greenbelts.

But Earth it was, and she finally got her “six months.” Her mom gave her the razor _. “Be sure to shave your brows, dear.”_

She hadn’t been back since. They were not cool with being tricked. She showed them that she was completing an education, it was just going to be at a Union academy, followed by a five-year commitment to the Fleet. Mom got it, but Dad still scoffed.

All through the academy, still the only one of her kind in class. Making friends was hard, especially given that humans were so frail. It was like living in a world of cardboard, and more than one friendship ended before it began with a handshake that broke bones. First assignment after the academy was Grissom Station, and that was not just lonely but dull. Six months later, kicked to a patrol ship that stuck to the Gemini Run – a little more fun, since they were chasing smugglers. A third assignment at an outpost of a new colony world. That lasted all of nine months.

The Union needed Xelayan brute strength and brains (deficient as hers was), so she got fast tracked. The commanders who got her were expecting an engineer, a medic, a scientist. They weren’t expecting a security officer. People were either disappointed by her human-level intellect or scared off by her enhanced strength. Just as she felt she had a chance to settle in, the assignment would complete, and off to the next post. The location changed, but not the loneliness.

And on every call to and from her home, it was the same thing.

_“That whole profession is beneath you. Come home and complete a **real** degree.”_

_“Your father is just worried for you, Alara. So am I. I love you. Remember to shave your brows.”_

And every morning, she shaved. Part out of habit, part because the whole “mark of shame and exile” thing seemed to be an accurate description, even if it was her own fault.

When it became obvious she was going to be reassigned again, she got proactive and looked up the list of possible postings – better to volunteer than get volunteered. The posting to the _Orville_ looked promising. It was an exploration ship – she would be _out there_ , out in uncharted space, seeing everything for the first time anyone in the Union saw it. New planets, new people. All kinds of ways she could be useful. The senior officers talked about the captain the same way other Xelayans talked about _her_ (not the sharpest tool in the shed, easily distracted, bottom of the barrel pick). No one else wanted to sign on, but she was so eager for any chance to be out there that she could be serving under a complete moron and wouldn’t care.

So, she got the job of Security Chief of the _Orville_. Clothes were packed, razor was packed, and she stepped on board.

Within a week, it was clear this wasn’t going to be dull. One quantum field generator, one attack of Krill, several uses of guile, and a well-placed redwood to blow up an enemy ship that overpowered theirs by a factor of ten. And despite what the brass said about her new captain? Mercer certainly could play dumb, but he was much brighter and competent than he looked.

And gee, it felt good. Crew was mostly humans, but out of all the species she dealt with, those “hillbillies” were the most welcoming. Maybe not the best as far as strength or raw intellect, but they sure could improvise. “Hugging the donkey” by flying between the battleship’s nacelles? Using a redwood as a weapon? Who else _could have_ thought of that but a bunch of nutty humans?

Another thing about humans – they sure knew how to celebrate their victories. They pulled into dock for repairs and downtime, and the simulator room was rented out for a party. Gordon managed to get his hands on some “hooch” that probably violated some contraband law (under the circumstances, though, she wasn’t going to look into it). John got up on a table and started dancing after a couple shots. Bortus and Klyden were off being cute in a corner – well, as cute as Moclans got. Everyone wanted to hear the story about evacuating the scientists. Krill attacks were getting more common, and usually the Union only learned of the attacks by finding craters where colonies used to be.

So, slightly buzzed, tired (John and Gordon roped her into dancing with both of them in front of everyone. She was drunk enough to go for it), and giggling like crazy, she staggered back to her quarters, and flopped on her bed. Great memory. She couldn’t remember the last time she had this much fun.   

The giggles stopped when she remembered that it was all going to end just as fast as it started. Standard posting was six months. Most of her posts didn’t even go that long. Countdown was already in progress to get her shipped somewhere else, some space station or outpost where she would have to start all over again, and she wouldn’t see these people ever again.

Well, that sucked. She sucked in a breath, trying to use some of her mom’s meditation techniques to try and make sure it was all committed to memory, because memory was all it was going to be.

The door chime rang.

“Who is it?”

“Um..It’s Captain Mercer. Commander Grayson and I wanted to talk with you a moment.”

Yup. Here it was. Guess six months was the _optimistic_ estimate. Okay, deep breath, tug on the shirt to make sure it wasn’t riding up (and be careful not to rip it. She already wrecked three uniforms that way), try to focus enough to override the effects of the alcohol, brace for the bad news, _then_ answer the door. Sure enough, they were both right in the hall.

It was a small ship, and rumor mills traveled faster than hyper-relay transmissions. Everyone knew the basics – they were ex-mates, some kind of cheating, some kind of scandal…big deal. Not her business. Crew was already deciding which “side” they supported, but if one was looking right at them, one wouldn’t think there was a “side” at all. Maybe another human thing, but not one she wanted to ask about.  Aside from the smooth foreheads and noses, both of them were kinda cute. Mercer had an adorable smile and Grayson had great legs.

Alara shook her head. Wow, this was _so_ not the train of thought she wanted to go on. Gordon’s “hooch” was stronger than she thought. _Note to self – two shot limit on anything Gordon brings to a party._

She straightened. “Yes?” _Hey, idiot! Remember protocol!_ “Um…yes, sirs?”

“How was the victory celebration?” Grayson asked. “We were too swamped with paperwork to show.”

“Um…it was good. A lot of fun.” Oh, this could be bad. She kinda hoped it wasn’t about the party…then maybe hoped it was…then back to hoping it wasn’t again. The alcoholic fuzz on her brain wasn’t helping matters and she could just hear her dad snarking off about how she didn’t need to impair her limited intellect any further.

Mercer pulled out the datapad from under his arm. “Just came by to let you know a formal commendation is going on your record. Your actions saved the quantum field generator research and the lives of those scientists.”

“Even though you got shot.” Okay, definitely not graceful, but if the captain got injured on a mission, it was the security guy’s fault.

Grayson smiled lopsidedly. “He’s a big boy, he can walk it off.”

Mercer grimaced, followed by Grayson raising an eyebrow. He shrugged in reply. They seemed to be having a conversation without saying anything. Weird, but cool. It didn’t answer the important question, though. She glanced at the datapad, but didn’t read it.

“I have a request.” She tried to be more formal, but it just fell out of her mouth.

Neither of them seemed annoyed. That wasn’t what she expected. “Go ahead, Lieutenant,” Grayson said.  

“Can I stay?” she asked. “I know you guys are probably going to reassign me  –“

“Stay?!” Both of them blurted it out at the same time. Alara tried to remember if humans had any telepathic capability, and remembered the answer was likely a “no,” even if these two could make a case for it. They seemed to have another silent conversation before Captain Mercer spoke.

“Lieutenant, you _definitely_ can stay. Barring anything outrageous, you can stay on this ship as long as you want, because you proved out there that you are definitely the best fit for the job.”

Alara couldn’t believe it. “Really?! Oh. That…that is awesome. **_Thank you._** Thank both of you. My folks are gonna be _pissed._ I can’t wait to tell them!”

In her excitement, she almost slammed the door on them, but she could have sworn Grayson was trying to hide a laugh.

That’s when the razor went to the bottom of the drawer and stayed there. Eyebrows were going to grow in. She wasn’t an exile – not anymore.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this was kind of a quick and dirty "get it out of my head" kind of fic. There was already a guess or two about the change in Alara's makeup, but when I saw that bit with her parents, the whole "mark of shame" idea came to mind. And yeah, I made an OT3 nod here because why not?


End file.
